To Emeline.

I would enshrine in silvern song         The charm that bore our souls along,             As in the sun-flushed days of summer         We felt the pulsings of nature's throng;         When flecks of foam of flying spray         Smote white the red sun's torrid ray,             Or wimpling fogs toyed with the mountain,         Arial spirits of dew at play;         When hovering stars, poised in the blue,         Came down and ever closer drew;             Or, in the autumn air astringent,         Glimmered the pearls of the moonlit dew.         We talked of bird and flower and tree,         Of God and man and destiny.             The years are wise though days be foolish,         We said, as swung to its goal the sea.         Our spirits knew keen fellowship         Of light and shadow, heart and lip;             The veil of My grew transparent,         And hidden things came within our grip.         And then we sang: "In Arcady         All hearts are born, thus happy-free,             Till film of sin shuts out the Vision         That is, and was, and that is to be."         Thus wrought the Seen-Unseen the spell         To which our spirits rose and fell.             As drops of dew throb with the ocean,         We felt ourselves of His tidal swell.         "Nature's enchantment is of Love, -         Goodness, and truth, and beauty wove;             In Him all things do hold together,         And onward, upward to Him they move."         And as we spake the full moon came,         A splendid globe in silver flame,             From out the dusky waste of waters,         Reposeful sped by His mighty name.         Sweetheart, I dedicate to thee         These Song-Waves from life's voiceful sea.             They ebb and flow with swift occasion,         Bearing rich freight, and perhaps debris.         Each murmuring low its song apart         May hint a symphony of art,             Since under all, within, and over,         Is diapason of Love's great heart.         For thee, as on the bridal day,         (Sweet our November as the May!)             Are joined in one our high communings;         So take them, dear, as thine own, I pray.         TORONTO, 1900.